


What A Moment It Is

by Mondo



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (1974), The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-21 04:56:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14908764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mondo/pseuds/Mondo
Summary: Gatsby isn't looking so good post-hotel incident. Nick wants nothing more than to do what's best for his friend.





	1. Prologue

I entered the elevator with the McKee fellow. He asked me to lunch, and something about the way his eyes glittered when he looked up at me (very similar to the way they glinted when the attendant scolded him about touching the lever) made me agree before I had even thought about whether I really wanted to do it. I suppose my subconscious had made the decision before I had.

“Would you like to come to my apartment?” asked McKee. I told myself I had accepted simply because I was being a gentleman, and that my Midwestern mannerisms made it difficult to refuse such a kind offer. 

Every time he offered something, I found myself saying yes. Would I like to take off my jacket? Yes, I would--but before I could make the necessary motions to do so, it was already off. It was McKee, definitely drunk, but with surprising dexterity. It slid languidly off of my shoulders and disappeared into a closet near the door.

I was dimly aware of the idle chat we made, none of which had anything do with our plans for lunch. I do remember that he told me about the most intimate parts of his photography portfolio. He kept them stashed away in his bedroom, which I duly agreed to see. His portfolio is one of the more interesting ones I’ve seen, though I’ve been sworn to secrecy of its contents.


	2. Oh Won't You Be My Neighbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is from Nick's POV. The POV will switch off each chapter because that's the way I wrote it.

Some time later, after the altercation in the hotel room, I found myself in need of a new suit. Though I’ve never considered myself a man of poor, or antiquated taste, the pink jacket in the Macy’s catalog I’ve been eyeing seems a little extreme for me. I’m tempted to throw the catalog away entirely and consider the jacket a flight of fancy. But I know a man who has a jacket just like that. Perhaps Gatsby will let me see his.

I don’t really want to bother him. I look a mess, I don’t know what I would say, he very well may have donated the jacket to a drunk partygoer sometime last week. But even if he had...what could go wrong? I imagined Gatsby’s coy smile as he guided me through the ins and outs of what was “in” and “out” in the world of fashion. An afternoon at Gatsby’s wouldn’t be bad at all, if only to better my appearance at work. If I want to make money, perhaps I have to look the part. 

But is making money, doing my job, all I’ve come here for? Something about stocks and bonds seems lackluster. Not that the Buchanan’s life seems much better, but at least in the latter people pretend to care about you. Overall, the prospects on the East coast are dull: If you have a lot of money, you’re expected to let it get the best of you. If you don’t, you’re expected to let that get the best of you. Were it not for the particular situation Jay Gatsby (a man for whom I make many exceptions) has included me in, I would have been long gone. 

I admit that these last few weeks, I’ve felt no strong affection at all towards Daisy and her cohort. Though the argument at the hotel originally left me flustered, I’ve since been experiencing a strange calm. I suppose the lack of rising tensions has allowed me space to breathe.

That, I’m afraid, can’t be said for Gatsby. What little I’ve seen of him is reminiscent of a struggling flame. There’s a dying intensity, one that you can tell just by glancing is powerless. Fool he may be, the poor sap must be in ruins right now. Though I don’t know how much he wants company, I ought to be a friend and offer my own. My tribulations with this pink jacket aren’t much compared to Gatsby’s troubles, maybe I can offer some distraction.


	3. Jay Gatsby Lives to Impress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gatsby's POV.

As I saw it before last week, it was impossible that Daisy herself would be the undoing to my life’s work. And yet, here she was. The ever-present, ever-bright Olympic Torch had managed to extinguish itself. But perhaps even more astonishing is the man who waits at the foot of the torch, believing to his core that this will be the torch that relights from nothing, unlike the hundreds he’d seen before.

I’ve accepted, perhaps, that I am this man. But if my work towards Daisy is futile, let my life be anything but. That being said, the idea of undying loyalty only inspires pity in my eyes, let alone the eyes of those around me. All the charms I’d smithed from nothing but North Dakota snow, they had to mean something to someone. I could, for a short time, tolerate being a lowlife or a nobody in the eyes of the masses, but to be of no use indefinitely was nothing short of torture.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve been so distant with Nick Carraway. As I looked from face to face in the hotel room that afternoon, Daisy’s reaction shook me, very deeply as a matter of fact. But Nick’s reaction ached. And it still aches. The way he looked at me, pitying and exasperated a la fois let me know that nobody in the room thought highly of me. A lover’s disgrace is a painful thing, but a friend’s disgrace is a shameful one.

There must be a way to regain his favor. I know he isn’t a vengeful man, but Jay Gatsby lives to impress. Any mistakes must be rectified, whether it be a stain on a dress or a stain on a reputation. Throughout this life I’ve lived, I’ve found it imperative to keep friends close. I wonder if he’s gone swimming since his arrival.  
Just as I emerged from my reverie and started towards my phone, I was alerted that Nick Carraway himself was at the door.

“Hello, Gatsby. I wanted to see how you were doing.”


	4. Poolside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From our dearest Nick's POV.

Gatsby lead me to a sitting room, and proceeded to demonstrate that he was worse than I had imagined.

“Well, I’ve been okay since last week. Holding my own, I suppose. There’s only so much you can do, right old sport?”

“I suppose you’re right, Gatsby.”

“I just don’t know what I did wrong. There were plenty of flowers, I even offered to drive...”

I felt my nose wrinkle as he launched into his plans once again. I tried to unwrinkle it as quickly as I could, but Gatsby’s razor sharp face-reading honed in it. “Something wrong, old sport? I figured Gatsby could handle the truth. Fragile though he may have been, I’m sure a pulled punch wouldn’t have helped his ego.”

“It’s just that I-- well, I’d rather focus on what’s here right now. As a matter of fact, I have a question for you.” That seemed to get him back into sorts. He took a hasty drag from his cigarette. “Of course, Nick. I’m sorry to drag you into conversation like that. Your question?” Another fumbling drag. Perhaps I had made things worse.

I jumped at the chance to speak. There was a discomfort wafting in the air around Gatsby like cigarette smoke. 

“I was wondering if I could see your wardrobe. I’m in the market for a new suit jacket.” 

“Certainly. I’ll have it arranged.” He looked me square in the eyes. “A new suit for an old friend.” 

I felt a blush creep up my cheeks. Old friends? I’d barely been here three months. But to hear the words from Gatsby’s muoth made me feel at home in a way New York never had, so I made no mention of it.

“In the meantime, though, what do you say we use the pool?”

Now, normally, I would have made an excuse to dash out. I knew my physique was nowhere near as pleasant to look at as Gatsby’s, and I didn’t want to reveal it more than necessary. A proper excuse would have been a godsend, but since I had to stay, I tried my luck at a circumstantial truth.

“I’d love to. Unfortunately, I didn’t bring a bathing suit with me.”

Gatsby immediately remedied my “problem”. “Would you mind using one of mine? I have several.” 

There goes the plan, I suppose. Apprehension aside, the prospect of trying on Gatsby’s swimsuit was an intriguing one. We walked out to the pool. Two swimsuits were brought to the deck. I rounded the corner to put mine on out of Gatsby’s view. I emerged, falsifying some confidence. Gatsby looked me up and down and smiled that wonderful smile. 

“It fits you fine, old sport”. I suppose I had nothing to be ashamed of if I could get Gatsby to smile like that. As for Gatsby’s physique, it was athletic without being overpowering. It was stocky in a pleasing way, masculine but without all the sharp angles. He dove into the pool and I followed suit. 

We chatted idly, hanging on the side of the pool wall and wiling away our time.


	5. We're Going to Look Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jay Gatsby's POV

We had emerged from the pool to lie in the grass beside it. It wasn’t the most becoming position for two gentlemen, but perhaps the best quality in a gentleman is his ability to adapt to different circumstances. Besides, there were better things to think about. Namely, the man dozing beside me.

Nick’s dreaming, blissful face (asleep? I couldn’t tell) was contentment for an afternoon, but the knowledge that my hospitality was its source was contentment for a lifetime. I would gladly stand being a nobody in the eyes of every person in West Egg if it meant my company would keep Nick like this for the rest of our lives.

I was almost petulant when one of my staff notified me that the suits I’d asked for had been readied. But, alas, I had a guest to entertain. And if Nick Carraway would like to see my wardrobe, it was my wardrobe he would see. I placed a hand on his now-sunny shoulder and started to rouse him, murmuring his name. I felt him breathe in deeply before he opened his eyes, and when he looked at my hand pressing gently on his shoulder, a blush spread across his face.

“If you don’t mind me waking you, would you like to see my wardrobe?” I gave him the gentlest of smiles, using it to soften my playful jab.

“Since you had to wake me, I suppose I could have a look.” On hearing the ever-witty Nick Carraway respond, I let my smile blossom into a shining grin. “Then to my dressing-room we shall retire.” 

I dried off hastily to await Nick’s return--nothing worse than an idle wait for my guest. I suppose he was eager to beat me, because I was only a second ahead of him in the end. This is something I dearly regret, because Mr. Carraway (arguably Minnesota’s finest), seemed to be modeling. The few drops of water still in his hair caught the light perfectly, and his top two shirt buttons were wonderfully undone. 

I managed a perfunctorily platonic comment on his appearance and led him up to my wardrobe. I had assumed he hadn’t seen quite so many shirts, but nonetheless I was impressed with Nick’s reaction. He had stopped just after stepping through the doorway, and his eyes were wider than I knew they could go. He regained enough composure to resume stride with me. He asked the question it seemed he had really come over to ask.

“Gatsby, I’m interested in some new jackets, and I was wondering if I could maybe try on some of yours for fit?”

“Sure, old sport. I’m a decent hand at tailoring myself.”

I took Nick’s jacket, sliding it off his shoulders. I threw it on a chair, replacing it with my hands. Placing them firmly on Nick’s shoulders, running them up and down his arms, I tried to get a feel for his body type. I may have taken my time, but thoroughness is my perorgative.

“Your shoulders are narrow but pretty sharp--try double breasted instead. That jacket”--I nodded to the one I had thrown on the chair--”is making you look a little boxy.”

I ruffled through an armoire to find a smart double-breasted jacket. I wrapped it around him and buttoned it up. I turned him to a mirror and watched that blissful smile spread across his cheeks once again.

Just to fan the flames, I kept talking. “Christ, that jacket fits you better than I thought!”. Looking at how big his smile had gotten, it felt cruel to even insinuate that I might want the jacket back. Nick spluttered, no doubt trying to say something self-deprecating. But before he could convince himself that he wouldn’t have this jacket, I spoke once more. 

“Tell you what old sport, you keep the jacket. I wonder, have I got any others like this one...Double breasted, notched lapel...take these three also.”

Now, of course, Nick had to speak. “Gatsby, that’s not necessary. I can go pick up one or two of my own later this week--”

“I won’t have it. I’ve never been much of a double-breasted man myself. I prefer to keep things simple. And why waste a good jacket? It looks good on you.”

“Can I pay you for them, at least?” I dearly hoped Nick knew the answer already.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, old sport. Take the jacket, and maybe a couple more. We’re going out to town tonight, and we’re going to look nice.”


	6. Mirror Images

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick's POV. Pardon his insecurities...

I borrowed from Gatsby a dark grey jacket (double-breasted, of course), and a blue shirt. I looked quite dapper, but I couldn't get past some lingering hesitation with wearing them. These clothes weren’t mine, after all, and I really knew very little about fashion. Still, Gatsby assured me that it was his pleasure. That phrase ran through my head for the rest of the night.

I looked at Gatsby from across the room. He was standing at a mirror, throwing together a happy-go-lucky outfit that I could already imagine him stopping a room with. He made eye contact with me through the mirror and raised an eyebrow.

“Something wrong, old sport?”

“Nothing in particular. I just...does this suit look okay?”

“You’re dressed to kill. Would you mind hooking up my suspenders?”

I was nervous to say the least. Gatsby’s firm shoulders and thick waist were...curious, and I didn’t fully trust my hands to do what they should. I moved them slowly, and fastened the suspenders with absolute care.

I moved to be next to Gatsby in the mirror, fussing with my hair. After watching Gatsby’s blond waves fall like Niagra, my brown mop seemed lackluster. “Gatsby, how do you get your hair to lay like that? Mine’s not doing it right.”

“Yours is doing it perfectly.”

“You’re sure?” I couldn’t help but be bashful. Gatsby hadn’t let me criticize a single thing about myself, and I knew only the finest things in life were worth Jay Gatsby’s approval.

“I’m a man of my word. Are you ready to go?”

The casual finality of Gatsby’s remark sent me beaming. If there was anything that could put a spring in my step, it was Gatsby being so complementary. 

“I think so.”


	7. Yeah, I'm Feeling Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the POV of Mr. Gatsby

I had sent for a car just before Nick and I had finished getting ready, so the car was waiting for us as we stepped outside. I opened up the passenger side door for Nick, then entered the car myself, and then we set off for the restaurant, a quaint little French establishment I was quite fond of.

About ten minutes into the drive, I noticed that Nick was being awfully quiet. I know he isn’t one for unnecessary chatter, but it struck me as strange that he hadn’t said anything. Don’t get me wrong: I didn’t mind it very much at all. His expression was a dreamy one--all the muscles in his face had relaxed, and his eyes were nothing short of wistful. I wanted to know what he was thinking about, but for fear of losing that facial expression forever, I held my tongue.

As we drew nearer to the restaurant, we passed by the hotel. Despite the cool breeze and the rapidly setting sun, I felt my face get hotter. A mix of regret and shame seemed to settle around me. I began to wonder if it was worth even trying to spend time with Nick anymore; his opinion of me was probably irreversibly lowered that evening anyway.

Out of all the times he could have spoken, Nick Carraway chose this one to say “Gatsby?”.

I tried to regain as much of my composure as I could before replying.

“Yes?”

“You’re a little red in the face. Are you feeling alright?”

“Of course I’m feeling alright. I’ve felt better than I have all week, thanks to you keeping me company.”

Nick raised an eyebrow at me.

“Look, old sport, I’m just a little embarrassed about how it all went down at the hotel the other week.”

By this time, we had reached the restaurant. I parked, very much wanting to disappear into the crowd of people walking by, but Nick seemed to have no intention of getting out of the car.

“That’s it? Gatsby, I’d never think less of you over a decision Daisy made.” 

Charmed though I was with his defense of me, I couldn’t accept it, not without reminding him of the bigger picture. “That’s not really it. I did everything for Daisy. Five years, more than a million dollars, all to get Daisy to make the decision to be with me. And look at me now: I’ve got nothing to show for it.”

After looking at Nick’s face fall, I almost regretted being so blunt. But allowing Nick to put so much stock in me was wrong. I could be a fraud to everyone else; they always left soon enough. But Nick seemed content to stay with me. I owed it to him to be truthful. He had to know what he was getting into. 

But Nick's thoroughly perturbed face made me realize that perhaps I had been a little on the nose. I tried to fix it.

“But let’s have a nice night, shall we, Nick?”


	8. Chivalry's Not Dead, It's Just Super Drunk

As we entered the restaurant, I offhandedly wondered how much pent-up self-hate Gatsby had been holding onto after the hotel incident. His speech outside the restaurant was, honestly, a little frightening. If this golden gentleman could feel such strong contempt for himself, what hope was there for the rest of us? Something in Gatsby’s resoluteness put me at a loss for words.

We were led to a table. We sat down across from each other, fiddling with menus and chatting idly. That is to say, I was doing all the fiddling, and Gatsby was doing all the chatting. But as I was offering up all the customary “mm-hmm”s and “really?”s, I saw something in my peripheral vision that made me freeze. Gatsby, who noticed that I looked like I’d seen a ghost, followed my gaze. 

Seeing Daisy Buchanan and Jordan Baker seemed to age Gatsby ten years. His facial expression soured and his posture stiffened. Though he had been the one to suggest we have a nice night, I felt the urge to say the very same thing to him. But just as the words were about to leave my mouth, Gatsby pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. A hollow cheerfulness lifted his cheeks up into a sad sort of smirk. Finally, he spoke.

“We’ll send them drinks, eh? Chivalry’s not dead yet, not if I have anything to say about it.”

Gatsby saying this was to be expected, but nonetheless it made me worried he was going to try and win back Daisy one last time.

“Gatsby, I don’t know about that. Maybe we ought to just let them be--”

When I said that, the sad smirk on his face very quickly turned serious. 

“See here, old sport. My pride’s hurt, but you’ll never see me get sore about something that doesn’t go my way. Daisy is no exception to this.”

While I want to say that I relented solely because I fully understood and agreed with Gatsby’s rationale, that’s not the truth. A significant part of me didn’t press any further because his fiery response sent my head spinning. I knew, logically, that Gatsby was a dedicated man. But to see that dedication in action was a very different beast. This was a side of Gatsby I’d never experienced so directly.

That fire I saw in Gatsby's eyes just now was the same one that appeared when he made me take those suits. Was he really still feeling so deeply for Daisy? After my awe at Gatsby’s deeply held fire faded away, I felt myself getting progressively more agitated. That fire I saw in Gatsby's eyes just now was the same one that appeared when he made me take those suits. Was he really still feeling so deeply for Daisy? But before I had a chance to express it, my outrage at Gatsby's feelings had turned into guilt. I had never...formally broken things off with Jordan, and I hadn't even thought to acknowledge her. What kind of man was I? The waiter came, Gatsby sent the drinks, gesturing toward Jordan and Daisy with an effortless wave of the hand. We ate our food. Frankly, I don’t remember much about most of our time at the restaurant. I felt so guilty I couldn’t eat much. 

I don’t know when Gatsby noticed my shifty composure, but he finally asked me about it when it was time to pay the bill (which, by the way, he didn’t even let me look at).

“Something bothering you, old sport?”

I admired how much of my emotional turmoil Gatsby was willing to put up with. Any of my issues, Gatsby was there, waiting to eke them out of me.

“It’s...I don’t know. It’s not important.”

“Nonsense, Nick, what’s the matter?”

I figured that, if Gatsby had paid for my dinner and given me a suit, I at least owed him the truth, even if it felt insignificant.

“Gatsby, I...I was never in love with Jordan.”

“Is that what’s got you so up in arms? It’s water under the bridge, old sport. We’ve all got to move on.”

I suddenly felt like a kid entering a confessional only to confess something that’s not even a sin. Feeling exposed, I looked for reassurance.

“Is that how it’s going for you and Daisy, too?”

In that moment, Jay Gatsby did the best possible thing he could have done. He smiled that smile of his, that wonderful, understanding smile, and said with a chuckle,

“Yes, old sport, I suppose it is.”


	9. What A Moment It Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jay's POV.

I wish I could have photographed Nick when I said that. His smile was quick as lightning, but unquestionably genuine. Every time I think Nick has arranged his face in the most delightful way possible, he outdoes himself. Nick Carraway, in his entirety, is a sight to behold. 

As we stepped out the restaurant, I felt liberated. Perhaps even too liberated. Like an animal that’s been caged all its life suddenly being set free--so many possibilities, but what to do with them all?

Driving home, Nick was very chatty. He looked completely content. I couldn’t figure how whatever I had said could please Nick so much, but the satisfied lilt in his voice was better than any music I could have found on my car’s radio, so I let it be.

I hadn’t even thought about bringing Nick back to his house. Perhaps I didn’t want to break that pleased, contented feeling we had so easily cultivated. It lasted while we left the car and entered the house, and I was convinced it might just last forever.

But as I heard our footsteps ring out through the house, I realized how much empty space there would be when Nick inevitably went home. I must admit, it dampened my mood significantly. But that warm feeling still hovered somewhere in the most secluded corners of the house. Suddenly feeling cold, I lit a cigarette and offered another to Nick.

We wandered up to a sunroom. The skylight was opened to the rapidly approaching nighttime. Staring up at the sky, I asked what I’d been wondering about him ever since we met. “Nick, old sport, what’s your plan now? What with your time spent with Ms. Baker being over, are you just working to support yourself?”

Nick moved closer to me, and I could see his placid expression. “I don’t have anything in the works right now. Bonds, I suppose, but that’s about it. I don’t have much to share anyway.” He thought about what he said, then turned to me.

“What’s your plan? All of this was for Daisy, wasn’t it? This is a lot for just one person.”

I dodged his question; I had an idea forming. I returned his inquisitive gaze with a knowing look.

“Do you have someone in mind that I ought to share it with?”

I doubted that Nick understood what I was getting at, and his reply solidified my hunch. He turned back towards the window.

“Not in particular. Have you considered selling part of it?”

“I couldn’t do that. I’m too dear to this place to part with it just yet.” I took a drag, then decided to stop beating around the bush.

“Nick, what do you say to sharing this with me?”

“Do you mean that? Are you serious?”

“As I could ever be, old sport.”

“Well, the answer is yes. I would be happy to.”

“I’ve been hoping you would say that. I could tell you always hated working in bonds anyway.”

“What about my house? I have all of my stuff--”

“Don’t worry about that, old sport.”

“Gatsby, that’s...that’s a lot. Thank you, but I can arrange my own affairs.”

“I didn’t meant to say that you couldn’t. But you’ve done so much for me, I think it’s high time I returned the favor. I’ll take care of that...and you, for that matter.” 

“I’m not saying that this is a raw deal, but it’s getting to sound a little...lavender. Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”

This remark of his nearly made me laugh out loud. Though I’ve been rather distracted myself, even I could tell that the way Nick looked at Tom was very different than the way he looked at Daisy. I struggled to contain my amusement enough to respond. 

“Nick, old sport, if you can look me in the eye and tell me with a straight face that you don’t have that same something to tell me, I’ll give you my sincerest apologies.”

“You’re lowdown, Gatsby, you really are. Does this rosy arrangement let me sleep in the master bedroom with my handsome provider?”

I must admit, just the way Nick said “handsome provider” very nearly made me weak in the knees. The actual idea he suggested made me giddy indeed. I tried quite hard to stay composed through Nick’s snickering.

“Jokes aside, I would arrange it no other way. But let’s not hurry there just yet. I think we can enjoy this moment right here for what it is.”

I slipped an arm around Nick’s narrow waist, letting my hand find the perfect spot just over his hipbone. Just as I did it, Nick's hand came around my waist too.

“And oh, Mr. Gatsby, what a moment it is.”


	10. The Epilogue: Birthday Pancakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick's POV, featuring angsty Jay Gatsby B)
> 
> Also, uhhh, I tried to write this present tense but it sounds kinda awkward, so, uh, that's a thing.

I’ve just woken up to the sound of loud, blond snoring. Out of all the things little James Gatz from North Dakota decided to teach himself, not snoring never made the list. The hand around my waist offers compensation for my sleeplessness. I accept it. It brings me back to the night we made this whole arrangement.

That night, that moment, is to this day one of my very favorites, even five years after the fact. If I get old enough that I can’t remember it, you really ought to slip some arsenic into my tea. On second thought, though, I don’t think it’s that pressing. The past was nice, but the reality is nicer. For one thing, it’s this fiery fellow’s birthday today. Hard-headed as he is, he wouldn't accept any of my proposed birthday shenanigans. Luckily, his hard-headedness also gives him a tendency to fall asleep and stay asleep.

A cleverly placed pillow under his arm (and a cleverly placed kiss on the lips) makes it as though I’d never left. Now, I’m off to make some pancakes for the birthday boy. Just as the last pancake is coming off the griddle, a thoroughly disheveled (and very petulant) Jay Gatsby enters the kitchen.

“Nick, I do so much for you. How is it that I end up with only a pillow to sleep next to this morning?”

I should have known that a man who violated a constitutional amendment to make money in order to impress potential mates would be dramatic about something like this.

“Accept my apology pancakes, dear birthday boy.”

The look he’s giving me is priceless. It’s like a sigh and a smile all at once.

“You shouldn’t have done all of this.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t do more. If you weren’t so nice to hold, you would have also gotten a full fruit spread and a plate of scrambled eggs.” Somehow, though, Jay didn't seem amused.

“I’m serious, Nick, this isn’t necessary.”

If Jay Gatsby had a dollar for every clue he had, he’d be absolutely penniless.

“I’m doing this because I love you, and saying the words just isn’t enough. I want you to understand that even after the party, I love you.” 

Despite his shining eyes, he looks like he can’t figure out what he wants to say.

“You’ve had quite the life, Jay Gatsby, and I want to be a part of it. You’ve done more than enough for me; let me do this for you.”

In this moment, Jay moves across the room faster than I’ve ever seen anyone move. Then he’s kissing me in our kitchen, and it’s even better than anything I could have asked for. When he finally draws back, he looks at me and gives me that beautiful smile. It’s a hundred times more beautiful when you know it’s for you, and you alone. I gave him a smile of my own.

“Happy birthday, Jay. Now please eat your damn pancakes.”

“For you, Mr. Carraway, anything.”


End file.
